


The Black Market

by JustOnlyGinger



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Dubious Ethics, Gunplay, M/M, Slave Trade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustOnlyGinger/pseuds/JustOnlyGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A teenage Boris finds himself in the unscrupulous clutches of black-market slave traffickers. And then, for some reason, sold to Theo's dad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When he comes to, he's alone in a dark basement. Chained by the wrist to a pipe coming out of the wall at what he estimates is waist level; there isn't enough slack for him to stand up. There's an earth smell down here, with an undertone that hints at something foul: vomit, maybe, or some other kind of human waste. He feels like he's been hit over the head with something heavy, and he runs his free hand through his hair and down the back of his neck and examines it for blood. There's nothing there. He flexes his neck, moves his arms and legs. He's not hurt, only bruised a little around the wrists. He rattles the chain against the pipe for a while before deciding it isn't going anywhere; the only thing he can do is wait for someone to come to him. Whoever's captured him will want him alive. They'll bring him food and water, if he waits.

He's not sure how much time has passed, but he's almost fallen asleep again (drugged sleep, of course they gave him some kind of drug) by the time he finally hears footsteps; the approach of something large and heavy, dragging across the rough stone floor. Light comes on; one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. There are three men down here with him. One is tall and bent and dressed in a dark suit, and the other two are smaller and wear dirty gray uniforms.

The taller man is speaking, and at first he doesn't recognize the language. A word or two sounds familiar, and he realizes it's English; language of tourists, of soldiers, of sad stray drunks in cafes. He had wanted to learn it; his father told him it would come in handy. Now he's crouched flat on the ground not listening to the words of the men talking, watching and waiting for the right moment to spring and strike out. He has the short chain wrapped around his wrist. If he hits one of them hard enough, if he can catch the other two off-balance... he's weak, he realizes. His legs are trembling and he can't keep them folded under him, can't keep himself coiled and tense and ready to strike. He's too weak, too tired.

“Poor little boy,” one of the shorter men says, in Russian. The two of them laugh. The man who spoke English comes closer, and he doesn't laugh. He speaks again, and his face doesn't change.

“I don't know,” says the shorter man. “Sixteen or seventeen. Old enough.” The tall man's answer is slow, something mocking in the rhythm of the unfamiliar words. He kneels and places a plastic bottle of water and something wrapped in paper on the floor.

“His name,” the Russian man says. “I don't know. What's your name, little boy?”

“Tell him,” says the other man in uniform. They both have guns slung at their hips.

“Boris,” says Boris, looking up, meeting their eyes, one pair after another. If they're going to kill him, he should hold his head high.

The tall man meets his gaze the longest; he smiles, and nods slightly. Boris wants the three of them to go away, leave him alone in the dark to sleep again. Once he's rested, he can figure out how to get out of here. There's always a way for him to get what he wants.

“Watch this,” one of the shorter men says abruptly. He draws his gun from the holster at his side and seizes Boris by the hair with his other hand, dragging him upright. Boris lets out a silent gasp; the gun is thrust in his open mouth, its narrow muzzle cold and heavy on his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

“See,” the man says. “He sucks it good.” Boris closes his eyes and breathes, reminding himself that he will survive this. He'd always thought he would cry or piss himself if something like this ever happened to him, but here he is chained to a pipe on a cold basement floor with a gun in his mouth and he doesn't make a sound or move a muscle. Another hand grabs his hair and wrenches him away from the hand holding the gun; his teeth scrape the barrel as it withdraws, and he tastes oil and cool dark metal.

When the American man- Boris doesn't know why, but he supposes the tall man who appears to be in charge of the other two must be American-- speaks again, his words are harsh and quick, hissing and angry and full of dry little pops like gunshots. He shoves the man who'd grabbed Boris, pushes him back and slaps him across the face. The man raises his hands to defend himself, but only succeeds in getting slapped again, then grasped by the collar of his shirt and thrust into the wall.

“Sorry about these assholes,” the American says, kneeling again, face to face with Boris. “You will be treated well here. I'll turn you over to someone who can take care of you.” His Russian is stilted, deliberate, formal. Boris licks his dry lips, but doesn't dare speak. The American picks up the bottle of water, twists off the cap, and holds the neck to Boris' lips. Boris drinks, swallows easily; feels himself, somehow, relaxing. I'm lucky, he thinks. Whatever's happened here, I'm lucky to have this man to protect me.

The men leave, together, the two smaller ones subdued and slinking at the heels of their master. Boris drinks from the bottle of water and eats the paper-wrapped sandwich they've left for him; some kind of pink pasty lunch meat between two pieces of stale white bread. He's had worse, of course, but seldom in a worse place. At last he braces himself in the corner, at the place where the two rough stone-and-mortar walls join, and curls up with his arms around his folded legs. He has no way of knowing how much time is passing, but what seems like hours go by; the already dim light fading as he closes his eyes and nestles into his black and hopeless thoughts. No one will ever find him down here. His father will look for him, but not for long. His friends will assume he's gone, left the country again without saying goodbye. Though it isn't cold, though he's fully dressed, he starts to tremble. He's gotten in a lot of scrapes, squeezed himself out of a lot of tight spaces, but there's nowhere he can go from here.

Boris wakes to find the American man crouching next to him again, offering him another bottle of water and paper-wrapped bundle of food. He smiles, seems proud, strokes Boris' hair while he eats.

“Not long now,” he promises. “Soon someone will come for you.” Boris doesn't really know what he means, and doesn't ask. He's heard about this sort of thing happening; kids like him lured in from the street, promised a good job in a foreign country, plane ticket paid for, everything complimentary. Trapped in basement slaughterhouses like this, bought and sold and bartered and used as collateral. He's become a commodity controlled by the American and his crew, to be traded for guns or drugs or cash or stolen goods. At least, Boris thinks, he won't die here. As the American says, somebody will come for him.

Days go by-- or what he assumes are days, dimly marked by the rudimentary needs of his body, the clockwork of eating and excreting-- and still no one comes for him. The American was wrong; nobody's going to rescue him. Nobody wants him, but there must be some reason the American's keeping him around, continuing to feed and reassure him, even rub him down with rags and soapy water when he starts to reek. An actual bath would be too much to ask for, he supposes, as would a change of clothes; he's still wearing the same dirty t-shirt and cheap knockoff blue jeans he was captured in. His clothes are tattered now, the cuffs of his pants in ribbons, the shirt worn through in several places, showing him his own ugly scrawny body. His skin is white and smudged with dirt and bruises, but the American doesn't seem concerned, keeps blithely repeating that soon, yes, very soon someone is surely coming to fetch him.

A curious thing happens: the American speaks to him in English, and Boris starts to understand. He can't form the words himself, but he can make sense of maybe every two in three; the American speaks slow and loud for his benefit, schooling him. He has no idea how long he's been trapped in this basement, but the cuff on his wrist has chafed him raw, and his wrist is marked with blackening sores over the bone, where the skin's been worn away by constant friction. The American brings him disinfectant and bandages. He cleans and wraps the wounds with the skill and patience and cooed reassurances of a pediatric nurse, something Boris has seldom seen in his life, but he remembers. Small injuries and childhood illnesses, ear infections, sore throats. Someone shining lights into his eyes and mouth, rapping on his knee with a rubber mallet.

One day Boris is woken up by someone speaking loudly in English. Two someones, a back-and-forth, a sound like crows bickering. Some of the words are unfamiliar, but he can piece together their meaning. It's the American man and someone else; also American, at a guess, with the same patterns of speech and movement, the same slouches and shrugs, the same dark sunglasses worn low on the bridge of his nose.

“I don't need to see him,” the new one's saying. “Christ. He's a teenage boy. I know what they look like.”

“Look. Let me show you.” Boris' benefactor is kneeling on the floor next to him, yanking up the hem of his shirt. He strips it off; it doesn't make much of a difference. Boris is cold, covered in gooseflesh, quivering and clutching himself as this new man stares at him behind his glasses. He has the kind of face that's either all too familiar or impossible to remember; slightly square in the jaw and pouchy in the eyes, nose big but not too big, mouth neither thick or thin but constantly mobile, twisting and spitting with speech; the voice low, drifting, lazy, unconcerned, a little annoyed.

“Look, I said I'd take him off your hands. Call it a favor. Who cares.” He shifts closer, nudges Boris with the tip of his shiny shoe. “What's another one of these, more or less? I can move him.”

“Then he's yours.” The American slaps his friend on the back, makes a show of handing him Boris' tattered shirt. The newcomer drops into a crouch next to Boris, offers him the handful of filthy material.

“Hello, little Ruskie. I... damnit, what's 'hello' in Russian?”

“He understands English. Enough to be useful, at any rate.”

“That so?” The man seems impressed; he looks at Boris with new appreciation, eyes gleaming behind the bulbous lenses of his sunglasses. “All right then, kid. I'm Mr. Decker. I'll be getting you out of here.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Decker makes good on his promise; soon Boris sees the sky for the first time in he doesn't know how long, high and domed and gleaming with diamond stars, as he's loaded into the back seat of a car that's waiting at the curb with its engine running. He doesn't recognize the neighborhood, but it's dark, and he can't see much out the windows, and he's dazzled by what he does see. The sky, the stars, the cracked cement sidewalks, the buildings all shuttered and muffled, the whole world bleak with graying snow, but it's the most unspeakably beautiful sight Boris has ever seen in his life. 

In a shabby hotel room, he's left alone for the first time with the man who took him off the American's hands. Mr. Decker points out the bathroom, tells him to go take a shower, bath, whatever he'd like, as long as he likes, as long as he gets clean. It's because Decker's going to fuck him, Boris figures, but there's no reason he shouldn't enjoy it anyway. He lets the shower run until the water goes stone cold, standing still while the strong spray lashes and beats against him, scrubbing his hair and skin with cheap hotel soap and watching black grime stream away from his body and swirl down the drain. When he's finished, he's dizzy and exhausted. He leans against the bathroom door for a long time, trying to gather the courage to open it.

“Kid? You all right in there?” Decker's standing outside; then the doorknob rattles and turns, and there he is in the doorway in his undershirt, holding out a heavy bathrobe as if he expects Boris to step into it. It's blue, soft and plush-looking, gold initials embroidered on the breast pocket.

“Here, put this on. I'll get you some new stuff tomorrow.” Boris takes the robe in his arms, almost drops it, shakes it out, eventually manages to slide his arms into the sleeves and wrap what feels like yards of thick warm material around his shivering body. He disappears into the robe, is engulfed and enveloped, feels about ready to fling himself face-first onto the bed and go to sleep. He's still operating under the assumption that Decker's going to fuck him; if he's asleep the whole time, so much the better.

“You hungry?” Decker asks. “You want to go to bed?” That, Boris supposes, is the invitation he's been waiting for, and he lies down dutifully on top of the covers and sinks his face into a heap of musty-smelling pillows. Decker does nothing; Boris can hear him just standing there, breathing indecisively.

“Get some rest, kid,” he says. “We got a long trip tomorrow.”

Decker sits down on the bed next to Boris, turns back the covers, eases himself underneath, still fully clothed. Boris looks over at him, and he must look pretty fucking startled because Decker laughs so hard his whole body shakes, making the mattress jitter and the bed frame sway.

“Calm down. I'm not gonna make you do anything.” Decker rolls over, his white-shirted back to Boris, and flicks off the light beside the bed. “I don't know what those guys did to you back in that basement, but you don't have to worry about that anymore.” Decker sighs, settles, sinks deeper into the pillows heaped underneath him.

“You're kind of quiet, huh? I guess you don't really speak my language. I bet you understand everything, though. I can tell by your eyes. Lot of intelligence in there.” He laughs softly, pulls the static-crackling sheets and blankets up over his head. “Go to sleep, kid. I'm not gonna touch you.” Boris isn't sure he can trust Decker, but he's warm and clean and comfortable for the first time in God knows how long, and he really does want to go to sleep. The lumpy hotel mattress feels like a cloud under his sore scrawny body, and the covers are slightly dusty, but warm and soft. He's asleep before he knows it, dreaming of absolutely nothing.

Boris wakes in the middle of the night with no idea where he is, starts feeling around for some clue, comes across Decker snoring on the opposite edge of the bed. He's relaxed, his body slackened with sleep, his back still turned, his head resting on his folded arms. Boris' instincts tell him to lean in close and cozy up to Decker; he's cold, and Decker seems to have all the blankets and body heat. Soon Boris is propped against his back, both arms around him, rapidly drifting off to sleep again. He hears Decker mutter something like “nice and warm, like that, 's good, baby” just as he's closing his eyes.

In the morning, there's sunlight pouring through cracks in the blinds, and Boris is even less sure where he is. He sees the suitcase on the floor and remembers Decker; there are vague sounds of singing and shaving coming from the bathroom, and the crack under the door is gushing steam. Soon Decker comes out in his shirt and undershorts, tie draped loose around his neck. He's smoking a cigarette, and Boris reaches for it before he can stop himself. Decker just laughs, fishes the pack out of his jacket pocket, slides one out and offers it to Boris.

“Smoking's bad for you, kid. But you could probably use one of these after what you've been through.” A lighter strikes and sparks, the tip of Boris' cigarette catches the long yellow petal of flame and glows. “I'm sorry about that, by the way. I'm a buyer for those assholes, I'm going to find you a good home.”

Boris isn't quite sure what he means by “buyer,” or why this asshole's talking about “finding him a good home” as if he's a dog that wandered in off the street, but he's definitely grateful for the cigarette. He smokes in silence, perched on the edge of the bed, watching Decker pace back and forth in front of the windows, occasionally lifting a corner of the blinds to peer out into the street. Then his phone rings-- a startling series of bleeps and chimes issuing from the suitcase tossed on the floor next to the bed-- and he answers it, starts talking rapidly in his language, too quick and quiet for Boris to make sense of much more than a spare sentence or two. He ducks back into the bathroom and shuts the door; Boris hears water running, and the indistinct murmur of Decker's conversation, but no matter how he strains his ears he can't make out so much as a word.

When Decker emerges again, he has a pair of jeans on, his shirt buttoned, and his tie fastened; he's fully dressed, but the overall effect is hasty and casual. Boris realizes for the first time that he's not an unattractive man; he has a very expressive and mobile face, quick blue eyes, a glossy white-toothed American smile that manages somehow to look very genuine. He's running his hands through his hair, which is reddish-brown, thinning, a little long in back. It's not that Boris wants to fuck him, really, just that he appreciates his confidence, his energy, his uprightness. Everything about him-- the way he wears his clothes, the way he stands and smokes and speaks- practically crackles with self-assurance. He's a man who can do no wrong, in his own eyes; therefore, his acquiring Boris was the right thing to do, and whatever happens next will be equally prompt and correct.

“Hey,” he says. “I just noticed. You clean up kinda nice.” He sits down next to Boris, offers him another cigarette.

“Got to get you some clothes,” he says. “I talked to my guy, we can get you out of the country easy. Fake passports and everything, but you can't really go anywhere like that.” He eyes Boris critically, squints, taps his fingers against his chin. 

“You're pretty skinny. Wish I had something to make measurements.” Decker glances around the room, eyes gleaming and flickering in a way that gives Boris a sort of hot nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Here.” Now Decker's tossing him a folded shirt from the suitcase. “Put that on, that'll give me some idea.” Boris shrugs off the bathrobe, but leaves the bulk of it draped across his lap. Decker isn't looking at him with any particular interest, is tapping his fingers in his palm impatiently, waiting for Boris to put the shirt on. It's smooth stiff cotton, nice seams, perfect stitching, nothing cheap; Boris does up the buttons down the front, but the shirt hangs on him like a tent.

Decker laughs, and lightly boxes Boris' shoulder. “We gotta get you a tailor, kid. Don't worry, I'll find you something.” He leaps up abruptly, snatches his coat off the back of a chair. “I'll be back.” He glances around the room again, spots something on the floor near the suitcase that captures his attention, stoops to retrieve it. It's a pair of handcuffs; the real thing, heavy polished steel, bright and gleaming. Decker fastens one of the cuffs around Boris' wrist (his good wrist, not the one that's already raw and sore and blistered from being shackled to that pipe in the basement) and the other to the bed frame; there's enough slack for Boris to lie down comfortably, and he finds that he doesn't much care that he can't escape. The bed is soft under him and he's still tired; he closes his eyes, hears the door open and shut and Decker's merrily tapping footsteps fade away down the hall.

When Decker returns, he's laden with bags and packages; brown paper bakery bag with croissants and rolls, plastic grocery sack full of fruit and bottled water and individually wrapped lumps of cheese, flat gray cardboard boxes that must have folded clothes inside. Boris eats a hasty breakfast, devouring gratefully whatever's put in front of him, smacking his lips and licking his fingers for every last crumb. Then he's obliged to stage a bit of a fashion show for Decker, putting on the stiff new shirt and trousers and jacket and shoes, strutting from one end of the room to the other. He almost feels like laughing, feels keenly the absurdity of parading like this, putting himself on display for a man whose motives he almost certainly can't trust. Part of him, he has to admit, is enjoying it; the clothes fit him well, probably better than anything he's ever owned. He catches sight of himself in the mirror over the bed; dark tangled hair, sunken eyes, thin lips and razor-sharp chin, razor-creased brand new shirt, dark blazer with pinstripes. He's unrecognizable to himself, despite the familiarity of the dark circles under his eyes and the depths of desperation in them.

“You look good,” Decker says. “Not bad at all, kid. Damn, you do clean up nice.” Boris feels that heavy warmth in the pit of his stomach again, realizes he doesn't mind showing off for Decker. He's inconsequential, it's true; skinny, greasy-haired, with bad teeth and an unremarkable heavy-boned Slavic face. Nothing special; dark hair, brown, not quite black. Dark eyes, high pointed nose and cheekbones. Like a hastily drawn cartoon, a caricature, a stereotype. Boris wonders what it would take to make a man want to fuck him.

“I mean it,” Decker's saying. “You're good-looking. Kinda dashing, actually. Real handsome for a kid your age.” He's grinning, his dark glasses still on, the fingers of one hand stroking and stroking the arm of his chair. “I kind of want you for myself. I could keep you.”

Boris finds himself striding over to Decker, his body suddenly confident and aware, the rest of him just sort of being carried along for the ride. He sits on the arm of the rickety chair, takes Decker's hand, places it on his knee.

“What, really?” Decker grins at him, reaches up and removes his glasses, lays them aside. “I told you, I'm not gonna make you do anything. You don't have to play sexy for me.”

Boris shrugs, spreads his legs in their new trousers, leads Decker's hands higher; pretty soon there's one on his inner thigh, stroking and rubbing gently, and one sneaking up under the hem of his shirt and touching bare skin at the small of his back. Boris is holding on to Decker, both hands on his shoulders, wobbling and swaying where he's perched on the too-narrow chair arm. He eases himself off it, lets his ass come to rest in Decker's lap.

“Say something. Use your voice.” Decker's lifting aside Boris' hair to murmur in his ear; Boris shivers pleasantly, feels his whole body reverberate with something that's a near-enough facsimile of desire. What if he lets this man fuck him? What has he got to lose?

“Say something, if you really want this. I don't really screw mutes.” Decker's licking at him now, working gently with lips and tongue at the sensitive skin behind Boris' ear.

“Yes,” is all Boris says; nearly all he knows how to say. “Want, you know, yes.” He's just stringing words together, not paying much attention to whether they make sense, but Decker seems pleased.

“Is that all? I need to teach you how to carry on a conversation.” He's smiling again, nodding, encouraging, spreading his legs to accommodate Boris in his lap, and Boris can feel the stiffness of his prick through his sharply ironed pants. “I do like that sexy little accent.”

“Yeah,” Boris says, trying it out. It doesn't sound quite right coming from him, not as offhanded and casual as when the American said it.

“I love it. Damn, I love that.” Decker shifts to the edge of his seat, swats Boris on the ass. “Go take those off, I'll meet you in bed.” Boris stumbles upright, hastily strips off his new clothes, piles them on the bench at the foot of the bed. Once he's naked again, Decker looks him up and down, assessingly, hand on his chin, mm-hming at thoughtful intervals.

“Can't complain about that,” he says. “A little skinny, but I can feed you up nice. A little meat on the bone, you know, it'd look good on you.” Boris climbs onto the bed, hesitates, can't quite decide what to do next. Under the covers or over? Facing up or down? He thinks of pictures he's seen, porn magazines, poster-sized stills outside dirty movie houses. A woman would do this, would rise up on all fours arching her back like a cat and offering her plump ass to the man about to fuck her from behind.

It doesn't quite feel natural; judging by Decker's laugh, it doesn't look all too natural either. Boris feels himself blushing over what feels like every inch of his body, which of course is too exposed out here on top of the bedcovers; nothing to soften the impression, to make the jangle of sharp-cornered bones more appealing. He hears footsteps; Decker's approaching him, and then there's a hand on his side, stroking him, fingertips sliding over the ridges and valleys of his ribs.

“Poor kid,” says Decker. “Practically starved down to nothing, aren't you?” Boris is still, listening, his head down, his face hidden in the pillow and his hair-- long and straggly, but clean for the first time in weeks- spilling around it.

“I can fix it. I can help.” Decker's murmuring low, soothing Boris with the repetition, the gentle head-shaking chant of his reassuring words. “You know what? You're still beautiful. You're still so fucking gorgeous.” Boris hears the sound of a zipper releasing, feels the heat of Decker's hands on his back.

“You tell me, all right? I know you don't talk that great, but tell me. Tell me to stop if you want me to stop.” Decker's hands are on Boris' ass now, investigating it in great detail, looking for something to hold onto. They're wet with something, and Boris grunts and nearly falls forward when one of them slips inside him. Decker starts feeling around in there, like he's looking for a light switch or something; then he hits something that does seem to turn on a light somewhere, in a way Boris is unfamiliar with. It's a sudden explosive feeling of pleasure, shocking enough to make his knees go weak, to make him wonder how he's never stumbled across that before. This must be why there are men who like getting fucked. Decker's noted his response, keeps giving him more careful and calculated stimulation, working over that one spot like a musician practicing some difficult fingering.

“You like that?” he keeps saying. “That's all right, when I do that?” Boris groans and gasps, letting Decker have it; really throwing his hips back into whatever the guy's doing to him. He doesn't really want it to stop, just wants to keep rocking back and forth on Decker's fingers until he comes. With both hands holding him up, he can't really touch himself; he can feel the heaviness in his cock and balls, the feeling he gets when he jerks off fast and wet and hot, almost faster than he can stand. More than anything, he wants Decker to keep going; a little faster, he pleads silently. A little more of that, just like that, right in that exact spot; a little more would be perfect. Just a little more, and he can come.

“That probably feels good.” Decker's still coaxing him, stroking Boris' back and shoulders with his free hand. “You probably want me to keep doing that, yeah? I gotta fuck you like this, with my fingers. That's about all you can take right now.”

Boris feels suddenly panicked, like he's about to be denied something he's always wanted, like he needs this guy's dick in his opened ass that's currently full of Decker's slicked-up fingers; they're thick and they're fucking him just right, but they're not what he wants.

“No,” he manages to say; Decker stops touching him altogether, withdraws courteously, his free hand stroking Boris' side. “Give me. I take.” His English is halting and monosyllabic, but he can be reasonably confident that the words are at least in the right order. He leans to one side, turns his head to look at Decker, who has his fly down and his cock out and a look of slack-jawed bewilderment on his face.

“They train you to do that? To ask for it?” Decker has one hand around his dick, just holding it, not moving; indecisive, clearly tempted, while Boris is starting to shake from holding the same position for so long. He releases his locked elbows, lets his arms and chest settle into the mattress. His legs are spread wide, his knees dug in, his feet pointed in opposite directions as he waits for Decker to approve or disapprove, to deign to give Boris' sad skinny ass the consideration of his cock.

“No,” Boris says. “You give. Easy.” He doesn't have the necessary language skills to tease or entice Decker, to encourage or convince him; he's frustrated, racking his brain for something to say, for a reason to decide he can't do this; something to soften his growing suspicion of rejection.

“You're gonna do that for me? Take my dick?” Boris nods, glancing over his shoulder, wondering if he shouldn't smile; he gives Decker a sort of desperate leer, sharp front teeth sunk into his lip, eyes rolling and eyebrows twitching insinuatingly.

“You give,” he says again. “Fuck.” Decker lets out a long breath, one hand still idly petting Boris' side, fingertips sliding over and between the ridges of his ribs.

“God. You poor kid.” That's what Boris hears as Decker's cock finally slides into him; it's easy enough, very little pain, just a strange feeling of being insistently pushed against, faint pressure on the spot that Decker's fingers showed him, a sudden wild stab of arousal, some kind of line drawn taut through his ass, his stomach and his dick. He lets some startled curses fly, mutters Russian exclamations of doubt and wonder and amazement into the pillow under his face. Decker's heaving steadily into him, making his knees bounce and his hips sway and the stiff old mattress springs creak. Boris hangs onto whatever he can grab; first the sheets and blankets, then the upright bars of the cold brass headboard. This is what it's like, he tells himself. This is what a man fucking you is like. Not much different from the fingers after all, but Decker's grunting and huffing is different, the way his hands cling and grasp, the way his fingers sink into Boris' sides.

When it's over, Decker doesn't let him go; he pulls Boris against him, lies down at his side, leans into him, breathing softly, contentment practically rising from his skin with the heat of his body. Boris feels a kind of glow, realizes it's pride; he's made Decker happy, made him sing and hum and gasp and groan and cry out loudly as he came; certainly not unexpected, the wet stickiness, but strange. Boris isn't sure what to do now. His cock is still hard, Decker's thigh pressing up against it; intentionally or not, he can't quite tell.

“Goddamn,” Decker says. “That was all right.” His eyelids flutter, and he nuzzles Boris sleepily.

“Fuck it. Don't see why I can't just keep you for myself.”


	4. Chapter 4

Things move fast for the next couple of hours; Boris hoses himself down in the shower again, dresses in his sharp new clothes. There's a car to take them to the airport. All Decker's forged paperwork is in order, and he struts around with the radiant confidence of a man who's never been caught, shepherding Boris through security lines, into the terminal, down the long telescoping walkway to the waiting plane. Boris has never flown before; as soon as they're seated, Decker orders him a drink.

It's an exhilarating, stomach-swooping nightmare, tilting away from the earth, sinking into the sky like a slingshot stone, too fast and too far, and Boris briefly wonders if he'll ever touch solid ground again. Apart from the takeoffs and landings, however, there's nothing to it but sitting in a chair with an uncomfortable seat belt on and leaning over Decker's lap to look out the window. There are clouds out there, and sun, and sky bluer than Boris has ever seen it before. Decker mostly naps, tilted back in his seat, jacket draped over him, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose. When the plane lands, he stretches and yawns, blinks his low-lidded lizard's eyes against the brightness of the sun through the tiny oblong window.

It's dark by the time-- several more takeoffs and landings later- they reach their destination; Decker's home city, a place called Las Vegas. Boris has heard of it, hadn't ever thought he'd end up here. The cab they get into takes them away from the lights, into the darkness and silence of what Decker says is one of the world's great deserts. There are half-paved roads here, houses half-built, partially dug foundations and abandoned piles of cement blocks and plastic pipes. The car finally stops in a driveway flooded with light; the house towering over it is lit up in the midst of the miles and miles of darkness. Decker gets out of the car, opens Boris' door for him. Boris climbs down, half expecting the earth to open up under his feet. Everything around him is unsettled, vague, a landscape from an anxious dream.

The cab pulls away, its engine the loudest thing in all this still and hostile expanse of unfamiliar night. Boris stands in the driveway watching it until its taillights are nothing but red pinpricks in the distance.

“What're you waiting for, kid?” Decker's calling him from the white-lit doorway, leaning there with a hand on his hip, patting his pocket for his cigarettes. “Come in. Relax. Freshen up.” Boris approaches slowly, glancing from side to side and over his shoulder; he's exhausted, animal instincts surfacing, primed and ready for something to go wrong. Not that he's sure the worst hasn't already happened; he's been abducted and drugged and chained in a basement, and Decker... Decker fucked him and didn't seem to think much of it one way or the other.

“Don't be shy,” Decker's saying. “Come on in the bedroom, I've got a new mattress we can christen. Aw, don't give me that look.” He laughs, and Boris smiles; briefly, cautiously, his teeth catching on his lower lip.

“That's better. That's kind of fucking sexy, actually.” Decker maintains his distance, smokes his cigarette, doesn't move towards Boris or try to touch him. “Follow me.”

The house is almost as huge and empty as the desert surrounding it. White rooms, cream-colored carpet, weeks of undisturbed dust, very little furniture. There's a room with a giant double bed-- modern spit-polished blond wood-- and a door leading into a blue-tiled bathroom with the most extravagantly huge sunken tub Boris has ever seen, or heard of, or suspected to exist. Decker shows him how to turn the taps and stop the drain, and the thing starts filling slowly. Boris peels off his shirt, which he's just realized is fairly sodden with sweat, and watches Decker-- serenely preoccupied, sorting through a cupboard full of folded towels and bottles of shampoo-- for a minute or two before shedding his belt and trousers and undershorts. By the time he's flopped gracelessly into the waist-high water and started lathering his hair, Decker's gone.

Boris floats for a long time, lounging more than bathing, scrubbing his hands through his hair and watching beads of water slide along the soapy furrows between his ribs. He leans against the edge of the tub and drowses, allows himself to forget that there's a man waiting for him somewhere on the other side of the door, somewhere in the wilderness of the big blank nearly-empty house. Finally Decker's knock comes on the door, and Decker kneels down to offer Boris a towel and a helping hand as he climbs out of the tub.

“Have a nice soak, baby?” Decker darts in and kisses Boris on the corner of his mouth, and Boris is surprised to find he enjoys it; both the pet name and the quick surreptitious touches, Decker's hand on the small of his back, Decker's dry lips brushing his cheek. Decker leads him to the master bedroom, that endless expanse of immaculate carpet, the bed already made with crisp new sheets and blankets; heavy and soft and warm, proof against the chill of the air conditioner. Boris climbs in, lets the towel fall only after he's pulled the covers up to his chest.

“Take it easy,” Decker says; his back is turned to Boris, his voice a low and distant grumble. “I'm not gonna try any fruity stuff. Unless you want me to.” By way of answering, Boris curls closer to Decker under the covers; just close enough to feel the heat of his body, the pool of deeper warmth surrounding him. The sheets are thick, impossibly cool and plush.

“You really don't talk much, do you? That's all right. That's nothing to be ashamed of. Take it all in, kid. I know everything's changed for you pretty fast. I know you probably don't want to be here.” Decker turns again, places a careful hand on Boris' arm; Boris freezes, but doesn't pull away.

“I'm kind of a lonely guy. I don't have a lot in my life that's any good, but whatever I have-- whatever I am that's worth anything- you're welcome to it. I'd do anything for a kid like you.” Decker rolls onto his back. He's quiet for a long time, and Boris stares at the wall opposite the bed, listening to Decker's breathing settle and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the strange dark.

“Kid.” Suddenly Boris is waking up to Decker's whispering; he reaches out for something, grabs the front of Decker's shirt in the dark. Decker pulls him close and kisses him, full on the mouth; kisses him deeply and sweetly, for a long time, as if he's slowly drawing something out of him. Boris is embarrassed by the way he clings and claws. He's nothing, he knows, a skinny little nothing trying to keep himself from disappearing in the dark. The cold, the blowing sand, the empty houses, the howling wind.

“Shit.” Decker's stroking him, clumsily, heavy hands on his neck and shoulder. “You sound like you're crying.” Then Boris hears it; his own hissing breaths, a sound like slabs of ice shifting on a frozen lake. He tries to stop, hears himself hiccup, then breathe slowly and shakily again.

“It's all right.” Decker keeps petting him, winding Boris' tangled hair around his fingers. “Don't be scared. You're not alone.”

“Shit.” Boris is surprised by his own voice, sudden, startled, scratching its way out of his throat. “Sorry.” He can't see Decker, but it sounds like he's grinning.

“Don't worry about it, kid. Don't be sorry.” There's more shifting and settling, and Decker turns his back again, sighs deeply; all the muscles in his back twitch and shiver when Boris leans up against him. “Yeah, that's right. I'm here. We're both here. Go back to sleep.”

“Yeah.” The shape of the word curves Boris' lips into a smile, and he feels himself relax; slowly, piece by piece, the tension seeping out of him like steam. Soon he's asleep again, dreaming of a glassy black river, lantern lights reflected in the water. Tall buildings, their reflections wavering and indistinct, churning and swirling like fire.

The next morning, Boris surprises Decker in the shower. He hadn't really planned it, just went into the bathroom to piss and heard the water running, Decker splashing in there, singing to himself. Boris had drawn the curtain aside and stepped into the tub, into the spray of the water, the halo of droplets surrounding Decker; streaming off his naked body, which wasn't bad for a man his age. Boris hadn't really looked at it before. Now they're both naked, soaking wet, staring at each other through the rising steam. Decker looks older and wearier without his dark glasses, his thinning hair plastered to his head. His eyes are slyly narrowed, his lips drawn back in an openmouthed grin.

“Well, good morning, beautiful.” He braces himself against the shower wall with one hand and offers Boris the other, grasping his hand, pulling him closer. “Say, you're pretty well trained, aren't you?” Boris' eyes drift down, take in the graying hairs on Decker's chest, the slight paunch of his belly, his inattentive prick lying smooth against his thigh. Again without planning, without any sort of forethought whatsoever, Boris drops to his knees.

“Oh, wow. I don't suppose you do breakfast in bed too.” Decker's laughing, hands in Boris' hair. Then he's stroking his shoulders, touching his cheeks and chin, moving both hands over him solicitously, as if coaxing him. “It's all right,” he says. “You don't have to do this now. Don't be a martyr, kid.”

Boris allows Decker to raise him to his feet, and they both stand facing each other again, the warm water thundering down. Barefoot, Decker isn't that tall; only a little taller than Boris.

“Tell you what,” he says. “I'm gonna get you off.” Boris has no particular objections to this; he stands still, incurious, Decker's slippery arms around him. Decker's slick palm presses against Boris' cock, then he wraps it in his fingers, holds tight, pulls gently. Boris gasps, his face in Decker's shoulder, his legs trembling, knees practically knocking together. No one's touched him like this in so long; no one's ever really touched him like this, no one who knew what they were doing, and Boris is embarassed by how quickly he comes into Decker's tightly fisted hand, but Decker grins, and kisses him, and reaches over to get the shampoo and washes Boris' hair for him, and they go back to bed together until midmorning when Decker's phone rings.

He's gone a long time, talking, pacing, somewhere in the echoing emptiness of the house; Boris can hear his anxious footsteps, his lowered voice, can piece together the occasional sentence but can't make sense of the conversation. Decker seems to be asking the same questions, over and over, as if he can't believe what he's hearing.

When he comes back, he's shaking his head, walking with a sway as if he's drunk. He sits down on the edge of the bed, tosses the phone onto the nightstand.

“You're gonna think this is weird,” he says, not looking at Boris, not really looking anywhere. Boris can see only the back of his head, bald spot, ruffled hair, and the slope of his bare back, looking somehow defeated. “I've got a kid your age. Theo. He's coming to live with me. I mean, with us. His mother...”

“Yeah.” Boris' own mother has been gone for many years. Drunk, falling out a window. No great loss. He wonders who Decker's woman was, if she was beautiful.

“It'll be okay,” Decker says, sinking forward, propping his head in his hands. “He's a good kid. Theo.”


End file.
